


Fairytale Of New York

by vanillawg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Astronomy Club, Christmas, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Other, space dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillawg/pseuds/vanillawg
Summary: Truthfully, Derek has always been a point in Stiles’ life that’s equal parts stable and volatile: he knows, he knows that Derek is always there, and that they always meet on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays, and they always text, and sometimes bump into each other, but… but equally, Stiles feels like a can of pop that he’s constantly shaking.Or: the one where Stiles and Derek run an astronomy club, adopt a bunch of kids, and fall in love along the way - just in time for Christmas.





	Fairytale Of New York

**Author's Note:**

> edit [13/04] the only up to date copy i had was a pdf and i copy and pasted but lmfao ., didn't work too well so i went back and fixed some of the more obvious mistakes. if i missed anything i'll likely get back to it myself or i don't care enough, but if i DO .. i'll find it myself don't worry.  
> ok. lmfao. so: this is a repost. i posted this fic originally on christmas of last year, but i deleted it for a number of reasons. one of these was that it didn't get any traction, which i was upset about but you know, i'm a small time author. i know my place in the world! i wasn't expecting miracles.  
> but the biggest reason i deleted it is because of someone that was my friend at the time lmao. they weren't nice about it. they were actually kind of rude, which i guess they have been about all of my personal favourite fics. they offered ... not even concrit lmao just crit. and it wasn't fair to me, because she knew how much hard work i'd put into it, and it wasn't fair to redeyedwrath or drgirlfriend either, who'd helped me. i guess the real bummer of it all was that this was like, my favourite thing that i'd ever written and i put insane amounts of effort into it in regards to research and making sure i got the timeline right in my head and everything. and i know i'm always super critical of my own work - but that's me being critical of my work. not a friend, who i didn't ask, and it was also a bummer that it just did not get the kind of reception my nsfw fics got (i know that they don't get a lot of reception either, but they got more than any of my other fics ever got). it just felt like shouting into the void, and with the way it was talked about by my friend i just was not into it lmfao. so i deleted, and i didn't write anything for months. i honestly did consider myself done with the fandom, but i liked this fic still, and maybe it's not even good but i still put work into it so like ... why should i get strung up about it?  
> i guess i'm just a bit over like, having any sort of expectation when it comes to reception. it really does get to content creators when they put something out there and it doesn't get any sort of feedback, and i know no one has to kudos this, or bookmark or comment. but i still have stories i want to write even if no one's reading them and i still really am happy with how this fic came out. i write to get better at writing, and i know i'm not the best or the most influential, i'm not popular or have any particular way with words. but writing has always been, like, the thing that i love the most. and i always get so posted up over it lmfao and i know it's my bad because i get really anxious about this sort of thing and when you do every comment or lack thereof is like, blown out in your head - or at least for me. and i'm awful for comparing myself to big authors in this fandom - they're so much better than me, why would people read my stuff when they can read theirs, and that's not something i've just magically stopped thinking. it's a combination of like, being the lowest tier of fandom creator and just being a dramatic bitch. but it's just a thing, like anything else.  
> anyway i'm not saying this to be some sort of self pity fest or to turn it into an attack against anyone. it's just why i deleted the fic, and why it's taken months for me to even want to write anymore. sterek was the first thing i've ever had motivation to write for a fandom, and besides the kylux fic i'm planning i will likely never get the same kind of draw to a fandom. that is: once i'm done with the sterek stories i want to write, i'm done. when i first started writing for it i had such big ambitions lmao. i hoped that i'd get like, that one hit that draws attention to my other fics. now i'm more realistic about exactly where i am within fandom, but it's just like - it's not something i'm aspiring for anymore. i had my little drama queen moment and now it just is what it is i guess !!!  
> i don't know how this fic is gonna do now. it's clearly not christmas, and my fics have been getting less and less reception as i post more. but whatever, i guess. i have fics i want to write, even if they're no good. c'est la view ! also yeet guess who just posted this twice by mistake

Stiles comes back to New York after Thanksgiving feeling refreshed, _rejuvenated_ ; college had been kicking his ass, and his father hadn’t missed a single opportunity to comment on how dark the shadows under his eyes were, how skinny he’d gotten, _you’re looking awfully pale, son._

And, yeah: Stiles had neglected sleep. And food. And the great outdoors – but he’s on a scholarship at NYU, and majoring in chemical and biomolecular engineering, and times are tough. Stiles had been given a choice: come home for Thanksgiving, or for Christmas. He and his father both knew that Christmas was a lost cause for them: he’d be working, and Stiles couldn’t afford going down for both, anyway.

So Stiles had chosen Thanksgiving – he’d had a great time with his dad, and the McCalls, and they’d watched the game together and eaten more food than one person, reasonably, should: they’d exchanged Christmas presents then, Stiles giving his father a box filled with dozens of second hand sci-fi novels he’d picked up here and there, and John had gotten him a new scarf and a warm, dark green sweater. Melissa had gotten him a thick coat and soft leather gloves, and Stiles could have cried. It was too much, he’d complained. For the New York winters, they’d argued.

They weren’t wrong: winters in New York were terrible, and even though Stiles has weathered three of them already, he’s just not hardened for it. _And_ the heating in his and Scott’s crappy little apartment had gone out again, and their shady-as-fuck landlord had gone to St Lucia for the holidays.

So Stiles had accepted his too-expensive presents, _totally_ didn’t cry into his father’s shoulder at the airport, and headed back to New York.

As soon as it had hit December, Scott and Stiles had been decorating – their apartment is covered in fairy lights that are such a hazard Stiles is genuinely afraid to go to sleep at night, and a tiny fake tree they put in the corner of the living-room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room that they got in their second year of college, next to the TV. There’s a depressingly small pile of gifts underneath, but Allison and Lydia had promised they’d put their gifts under the tree next week before they go off to California and Washington, and Stiles gets to stay in New York.

They’re a couple days into December, now, and the students are humming and buzzing about the holidays – how excited they are to go home, and what presents they hope to get, _shit I forgot to get my mom something_. Starbucks – where Stiles got a crappy job in his freshman year and never got a better one – has been more busy than ever. Which is saying a lot, really, because this is New York. They’ve got the fancy new cups now, which people have been losing their shit for, and the Christmas menu is more popular this year than ever before! boasts their senior manager, Rachel, who had also never gotten a better job.

Stiles has even decorated the astronomy club room – which really is one of the dingy little classrooms they assign to the smaller subjects – with snowflakes he’d cut out and covered in glitter, strung up along the walls. There’s even some plastic mistletoe he’d hung up.

(He’d got into trouble for that one, because he absolutely did not ask for permission, but Doctor Deaton had stuck his neck out for Stiles and they didn’t take the decorations down, no matter how much faculty complained – or the cleaners, about the constant leaking glitter. Stiles does feel bad about that, but he also doesn’t know how anyone can be moody when they’ve _literally_ got a trail of glitter.)

And – and the astronomy club is, really, the main reason Stiles isn’t sad about not going home for Christmas. He’d taken over the club last year from a harassed looking girl who’d stared at the stars too long and had an existential crisis about her place in the universe, and subsequently dropped out of college. A little, Stiles runs it for the extra credits, but mostly it’s because he loves it – most of the club is curious freshmen, young and sweet, who weren’t good at physics in high school but love the subject regardless. There’s a junior, Erica, who’s feisty but sometimes withdrawn in the more mathematical sessions, and majors in fine art, and another senior like him called Boyd, who’s quiet and steady.

It also doesn’t hurt that the co-runner of the club is Derek Hale, who’s in his astronomy classes and studies with Stiles, sometimes. They have – they’re _friends_ , and good ones at that, which took a long time to get to: Derek’s barbed comments softened to well-meant digs, and Stiles’ poor temper inclination to insensitivity had tampered down. They had, in a way, balanced each other out; matured and gentled each other – sort of. They make each other kinder, at least, and a little less mean.

They’d actually met in their sophomore year, in an anthropology class they’d both taken for the credits. He and Derek had been paired up together on a project about medicinal practices in different cultures, and since then they’d grown on each other like a fungus.

There’s honestly no reason for them to be close at all – all they do is run a club and have a class and study together, even though they text, and they talk when they see each other – but they are, and Derek, Derek is _perfect_. He’s generous and more considerate than Stiles thinks he could ever be, and has a dry-cut sense of humor, and is so beautiful Stiles wants to _die_ whenever he looks at him. It doesn’t help that Derek’s always wearing these sweaters and cardigans, looking soft and gentle with his glasses (Stiles had tried them on, once, and is pretty sure Derek must be legally blind.)

And he’s smart – and intellect is, apparently, something that gets him hot, if his past crushes are anything to go by – and _literally_ chose his major so that he could help people; global public health and nursing, it’s too much for Stiles, he wants to climb Derek like a tree, god help him.

∞

They meet weekly at the overpriced college cafe, Student Bean (some evil play on ‘human bean,’ an expression that makes Stiles so angry he could explode, while driving home that they are, in fact, students, and condemned to the hell of student life) to talk about the club, and Stiles puts on his fancy new gloves – they’re lined with faux fur, and he’s truly wanted to wait to wear them until he was _sure_ Derek would see them, not at the club when they’re either off before he gets to the room, or Derek’s too busy looking at the skies – and the coat Miss McCall got him.

He thinks, briefly, back to that anthropology class, and the paper he’d written about courting techniques. Stiles decides resolutely that that is not what this is.

Student Bean is one of those horrible, horrible hipster places: it’s got dark wood everything that Stiles is almost certain hasn’t been polished since the place was set up, there’s plants crawling along every surface and rough wool blankets thrown over the back of every sofa. The employees are up-their-own, shaved eyebrows and bleached hair and too many facial piercing sorts who give you dirty looks and draw you into political arguments with information they got from a quick google search, just ten minutes before they accost you. For whatever reason, Derek loves it here.

Stiles _will_ admit that their hot chocolate is delicious, especially when winter comes around and they start to bring out disgusting ones like salted caramel, and honeycomb. He’s always so desperate for them, whenever he and Derek have their meetings Stiles practically foams at the mouth. It’s probably completely loony, but he thinks that he’d _actually_ kill for that salted caramel one.

Derek knows this – of course he does, they’ve only been meeting weekly for a year and a bit, now, and he’s so thoughtful that Stiles wants to honestly rip his own arm off and beat himself to death with it – so when Stiles stumbles into the cafe, ten minutes late because he was trying not to slip horribly and break his neck on the ice, there’s two mugs on the table in front of Derek.

He’s sat at one of the worst tables, right in the middle of the cafe where you’re always going to get bumped into, likely because it was one of the only ones available; everywhere really does get crazy in the winter seasons. Derek’s wearing one of his stupid sweaters with the thumb holes, wine colored and soft looking, and he’s reading a weathered looking book. Stiles wants to bury himself in it – or take a picture and cry over it.

When Stiles comes closer to the table, Derek looks up from his book and gives Stiles a small smile. Stiles returns it gladly, shucking off his coat and draping it across the back of the stool before sitting down. “Hey,” he breathes, and takes his gloves off very pointedly, one finger at a time. It’s a lot harder than it seemed on TV, but it draws Derek’s attention well enough because he says, “Nice gloves,” as Stiles puts them on the table. Stiles is a little proud.

“How’s class?” Stiles asks. Derek pushes one of the mugs closer to him, and Stiles wraps his fingers around it, bringing it close to his face.

Derek makes a face. Stiles knows exactly how class is going; Derek texts him frequently enough to complain about it. “Gina is awful,” he says honestly. “I can’t stand her – I should have asked for another project partner. She does nothing.”

Stiles grins, and Derek raises his eyebrows. Before he can say anything, Stiles says: “You’re a total control freak. You probably wouldn’t have let her do anything, anyway.”

He purses his lips and looks away. “We worked well together on that project, back in anthro?” Stiles nods. “I’m not a control freak. She’s just unbelievably lazy. She’s probably going to fail out of college, anyway. Hopefully. How’s your,” he waves his hand about, “everything going.”

Stiles shrugs. Just the same, Derek knows exactly how Stiles’ _everything_ is going; despite the Thanksgiving break, he’s still under sleeping and under eating, to get this lab project finished. “I made good progress on my paper,” Stiles decides to say, and Derek makes a pleased little sound under his breath. “I think I can probably get it finished this Friday.”

Friday is, if nothing else, their designated study day: neither of them have classes in the afternoon through evening, and meet in one of the research rooms in the library to go over astronomy, if they have anything for it, or whatever else class assignment they have.

Derek nods, “That’ll be good,” then reaches down and grabs the purple plastic wallet Stiles got him for the astronomy club – they both have them, and it pleases something deep within Stiles to know that they’re matching – and puts it on the table. Stiles grabs his, also. Derek pops it open and pulls two sheets of paper out, and hands one to Stiles. “I thought we could change the schedule a bit,” Derek says. “We’re supposed to look at lagrange points this Wednesday, but maybe it’s too substantial–”

“–for just before exams, yeah,” Stiles interrupts. Maybe two, three years ago Derek would have had his neck for this: now, he just nods along and says, “Yeah, yeah,” quietly. Stiles carries on: “We should swap that with something – what can we take out from the spring term?”

“Pluto,” Derek says immediately. “We’ve looked at our planetary definitions – we should do the Pluto debate now, and the Christmas qui- why are we doing a Christmas quiz?”

Stiles grins. He’d changed the schedule on Google docs the other night. “We were going to do a hike that day–”

“I am well aware.”

“–and I just thought it’d be a fun activity before we broke up for the holidays. And then we still have two sessions before school starts again, right?” Stiles shrugs. “I just think, you know, some of the kids have been kinda quiet so far, and it’ll be a good break from studying. Then – like, a hike for the people who’re staying at school, maybe – we can totally make a thing out of it, like a Christmas dinner, picnic kinda thing – with our leftovers? – if we switch that with the session before it.”

Derek’s nodding, now. “Yeah, that’s good actually. We’re still going to do the build-your-own solar system, right? Before the hike?” Stiles nods enthusiastically. “I still can’t believe you really went and made that software – that’s amazing, Stiles, really,” and the look on his face is so open and sincere that Stiles has to look away, he has to. He can feel his face getting hot.

“It was nothing,” Stiles shrugs. Truthfully, he’d enjoyed making it; he’d wanted to impress Derek, sure, but he’d gotten really into it over the summer. “If it works well we can – pass it down to the next generation, so to speak.”

“Mm.” Derek takes a long drink from his mug – tea, looks like, not that Derek ever gets anything else. “That’s weird – we won’t be here next year.”

Stiles cringes. It’s not something he’s been trying to think about: the future. They’ll be gone next year, off in the world, and Stiles may not have any control over his life, or the club, or anything. He hates the thought of it.

So instead, he just says: “Maybe we will be! Are you going for a masters?” and Derek nods.

“I need to pick what I’m going to specialize in,” he says, twisting his fingers under his chin. “Pediatrics, maybe. Or informatrics.” He shakes his head then, brows furrowing – Stiles knows this look. “There’s a lot, I haven’t figured it all out yet.”

“Hey,” Stiles smiles. “You have time, dude. Probably by the time New Year’s rolls up you’ll have planned it out through neat little charts and spreadsheets, or whatever it is you do in your little cave.”

He frowns again, but it’s a softer one. “I’m not a control freak, Stiles.” Stiles stares at him, and he sighs, reaching for his bag and slipping the plastic wallet back in. “I should get going, unless there’s anything else you wanted to talk about. I have a class in ten.”

Stiles shakes his head empathetically, tapping his fingers against the table. He wants to keep talking – he absolutely, absolutely does, but truthfully there’s not a lot to talk about, between them. “Do you want me to make a presentation for Pluto?”

“If you could – we can skype call, if you’d like, and do it together.”

Derek’s standing now, and Stiles has to crane his neck to look up and smile at him. “I’d like that,” he says, and then Derek leaves, and Stiles finishes his hot chocolate.

∞

Stiles’ sitting at his desk, staring down at his chicken scrawl notes. He’s been at it now for the better part of an hour – just him, and his papers, and a distinct lack of movement besides his knee, jumping up and down, and up and down.

There is, well and truly, nothing Stiles hates more than oral presentations – he’s terrible at condensing information onto cue cards, and even worse at sticking to the topic at hand. It’s a little easier with the paper – then, at least, he can regulate himself, which he’s gotten infinitely better at – but when he’s standing up there, in front of everyone? He fucking loses it.

And it’s not exactly something he’s not used to, either; he and Derek give presentations at the astronomy club all the time, but then he has Derek to stop and anchor him. Now, he’s staring down at his disgustingly ugly notes on membrane transportation, and wondering if he isn’t just better dropping out of college.

Roughly, he runs a hand over his face, leaning back in his chair and sighs. He has his laptop open in front of him, shoved haphazardly to the side of the desk, and he stares blithely at it. He’s not going to make any progress with this presentation right now: likely, he’ll just stare and stare at his papers all night, and get nothing else done, so he tucks his notes into a neat little pile and pushes it out of the way, and pulls the laptop closer to him.

He and Derek had planned the Pluto argument, in its barest skeletal form, since they were juniors; it is, probably, the session they’d both most been looking forward to. He opens a powerpoint, spending entirely too long picking a theme, trying to make it all space-like and cool, and begins writing the planetary regulations with the title: _In the beginning…_

It’s supposed to snow tonight – really, it’s supposed to be snowing every fucking night, because global warming or whatever – and Stiles and Scott were going to go out to a drive-through McDonalds, or Burger King, or wherever with the girls and hang out in Central Park until it got too cold to move. Stiles knows, without a doubt, that Scott is about to poke his head around that door and remind Stiles, and Stiles is going to say, sorry buddy, Derek’s supposed to call me tonight. It’s sad – it’s pathetic, is what it is, really, but Stiles will still argue that it’s nothing to do with his crush on Derek and instead him being a good leader, Scott, you’ll get it one day. Scott will shoot him a dejected look, and Stiles will try not to feel guilty (and probably make Scott some hot chocolate when he gets back.)

This isn’t the first time; and it’s not that Stiles blows off his friends every time Derek so much as looks at him, because he doesn’t – that really would be crossing some line – but…

But it’s weird. It’s a weird thing – when it comes to the astronomy club, there’s a small part of Stiles that thinks of it as he and Derek’s child, sort of, and really Stiles can see Scott and the girls whenever, but his time with Derek is less.

So when there’s a knock at Stiles’ door, Scott pokes his head around and Stiles smiles kind of sadly at him, and Scott doesn’t say a thing. He just nods, all sage-like, and closes the door behind him.

Scott is – he’s the best. Likely, he’s just resigned to Stiles’ erraticism when it comes to the club, and Derek: likely, he’s leaving Stiles to his own devices again.

But it doesn’t matter, because halfway through the slide _The birth of a planet…_ Stiles gets a call from Derek. He breathes in and counts to five: breathes out, counts to five, and then answers. Derek’s face fills the screen, his hair going every which way and his lip bitten raw. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like he’s been fucked. Stiles’ heart skips a beat, and he really and honestly can’t tell why, exactly.

Instead, he says, “Heeey, Der,” and wants to not think about the look on Derek’s face. But because he’s an utter, utter asshole, he comes out with, “You look like you got fucked,” because it’s the one thought racing through his mind, and immediately Stiles is overcome with the urge to kill himself.

Derek blushes – blushes, holy fuck Stiles isn’t prepared for this, he’s just a sad little boy who loves too easily, his heart is _breaking_ – and looks away. “I was doing this term project,” he says, and nothing much else.

Stiles coughs awkwardly. “Must be coming along great, then.”

He glares half-heartedly at Stiles, and asks, “how far have you come with the presentation?”

“Mm,” Stiles says. “It’s going good. I’ll put it on Google docs, just give me a – yeah, there you go.” Derek nods minutely. “I just have to finish this slide and then a quick recap of our planetary definition – we already have the for and against notes somewhere…”

“Here.” Derek sends Stiles a link. “Do you want me to take care of this? It won’t take long, but–”

“No, no, please. Is this alright? Doing it like this?”

Derek smiles, and looks at the camera. “It’s perfect,” he says. “You’ve done a good job. How long did you spend looking for this theme?”

“Not long at all.” Stiles blushes and looks away. “It’s whatever. Thematic.”

“Mm,” Derek nods sarcastically. “Absolutely. Hey, why don’t we turn out the lights and use my space night light? You know, for the thematics.”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, that’s a great id- you have a space night light?”

“Shut up and finish your slide.”

Stiles grins. “I love when you tell me what to do.”

Derek groans, and rolls his eyes.

∞

They finish up the presentation, with vague revisions, within the next hour, but stay talking into the early hours of the morning, about this and that, and everything and everything. Stiles thinks about texting Scott and trying to catch up with them, and he thinks about inviting Derek along. He thinks about what Derek would say, if he’d say yes and if he’d look more beautiful in the snow and the cold or just the same, if he’d say no and if they’d be awkward or laugh it off. He thinks about getting coffee from that shady 7/11 and if Derek would wear gloves as he drinks from it or not, and just warm his bare hands.

Stiles thinks and thinks and he doesn’t text Scott, and he doesn’t ask Derek.

∞

“You’re overthinking this.”

Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat. It could be a growl. Likely, it’s more like the sound of roadkill.

His Tuesday morning lab class is pretty much the worst part of Stiles’ week – it’s too early in the fucking morning, for one, and Danny’s always in a particularly snippy mood in the mornings.

(And he’s not exactly on the best terms with his class, either, because he selfishly forces them to share tables, and have a whole lot less space for it, because he’s absolutely, one hundred percent incapable of space management, and has his notes spread out all over the table in a very meticulous way. It’s organized, or something.)

“I’m not,” Stiles says, and pushes away from the microscope to look up at Danny, who’s looking way too beautiful this early in the day. “One,” he holds up a finger, “this is complicated, and needs a lot of thought. I can’t _overthink_ it when it _needs_ a lot of thinking,” he waves his hand around, and then holds up two fingers, “and two, overthinking would imply that I’m not literally doing God’s work. I’m sure there’s some higher purpose–”

“You’re really not,” Danny interrupts. “You’re going over and over the same shit and drawing the same conclusions – nothing. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to achieve, but you’re not doing it in the space of a week. Write the paper,” he leans over and slides the microscope away from Stiles, “and stop thinking so hard.”

∞

He manages a whole twenty-four hours before he’s literally losing his mind for a hot chocolate from Student Bean – they added a butterscotch one to the menu, and Stiles is _mostly_ sure that he wouldn’t rip someone’s throat out for it – and manages not to get in a fight with Marcy, the barista today with purple hair and a neck tattoo that Stiles is totally, absolutely _not_ into (lie). His bank account is definitely taking a hit, but he figures it’s this or go batshit crazy thinking about this stupid hot chocolate, and it’s the lesser of two evils.

But he’s definitely grateful when he bumps into Derek on the way out. Student Bean is in a _location_ , smack bang in the center of campus, that means it’s great for business but terrible if you’re in a rush, or avoiding someone. Stiles had always hated where it was, having to see it every day on his way to the chemistry labs and absolutely fucking seethe – he really and honestly doesn’t know why he hates it as much as he does, but god be willing he does, he does, he does – but now he’s definitely seeing the appeal.

“Hey!” he calls, already smiling. He shoves his left hand deep in his coat pocket – god, the coat is so warm, and nice – and keeps the other one carefully wrapped around the cup. It’s not decorated, and Stiles feels some sort of pride for Starbucks then.

Derek’s flicking through some flashcards and paying absolutely zero attention to where he’s going – like, people are literally jumping out of his way – but he freezes and shoots his head up towards Stiles (and, apparently, doesn’t notice the girl careening into his back). As soon as he sees him, Derek’s smiling too, and Stiles wonders why he doesn’t come to Student Bean more.

“Hey,” Derek says once Stiles makes his way over, softly. His nose is red and his eyes are so, so lovely. “Heading to class?”

“From class. I was gonna head to the library for a couple hours before my shift.” He looks at the notes in Derek’s hand. “Test?”

Derek shakes his head. “Presentation. Not the one with Gina,” he says at Stiles’ look, “but for my English class. It’s about _Emma_.”

“Mm.” Stiles takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and bites back a moan. Fuck, but it’s good. He remembers helping Derek with Emma – Jane Austen had been his favorite author, back when he had privileges such as spare reading time. “Are you ready for it?”

“I think so. I thought you hated Student Bean?”

Stiles flushes guiltily, and ignores the question. “It’s butterscotch hot chocolate. Here,” he shoves the cup towards Derek, “try it. Think of it as a good luck wish, in hot liquid form.”

Derek shoots him an incredulous look, but his lip twitches and he takes the cup: Stiles tries not to think too much that they’re sort of kissing through the lid, because he’s twenty two and not in middle school. But Derek’s smile is more warming than the hot chocolate ever was, and when he passes the cup back Stiles feels embarrassed, and stares at Derek’s forehead.

“Thank you,” he says, like Stiles had given him much more than a sip of his drink. “I’ll be thinking of you when I present.”

“I hope not,” Stiles blurts, and almost bites his tongue at Derek’s raised eyebrows. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m _that_ bad at love.”

Derek smirks. “I don’t,” he says, and Stiles’ cheeks heat up. He hopes that Derek will just think that it’s the cold, and not that he’s horribly flustered. “Walk with me to class.”

It’s not a question, and Stiles doesn’t make the mistake of assuming that it’s one – it’s easy to fall in stride with Derek, and they occasionally bump into each other, arms brushing.

They’re quiet for a while, but it’s nice – companionable. Stiles listens in on little snippets of conversations as he walks past them: an invite to a sleepover; complaining about an art project that left someone looking like they slept with Ke$ha in the art section of Walmart; “…if she fucking mentions how _cool_ and _woke_ she is _one more time_ , I’m going to lose my actual shit.”

He turns to Derek, and finds him already staring at the side of Stiles’ face – that’s a thing, Stiles has found, that Derek watches him a lot. It’s not creepy, really – likely, it should be, but it isn’t, not one bit. Stiles finds it comfortable, and he smiles at Derek. He hands over his hot chocolate, and Derek takes a long drink from it; Stiles can’t even be mad.

“Do you remember,” Stiles says suddenly, “that time in anthro, where you came in hungover? Like, you were half dead, and threw up in that girl’s bag?”

Derek groans. They’d gone out to some frat party the night before, thinking they were so cool. Before then, they weren’t really friends – just two losers who took the same shitty anthropology class – but that must have been a turning point in their relationship. A milestone sort of thing: Stiles had had to drag Derek physically away from a fight, shoving him into the back of the Uber Stiles had called for, and half-carried him up to his dorm room. Derek’s roommate at the time – some stale-nosed asshole called Matt – had a girl over, and they’d pretty much murdered the mood twice over when they’d fallen in, Derek barely cognizant and Stiles heaving and sweating. He’d pulled a muscle in his back getting Derek into bed.

“I’d bleached my mind of it, actually,” Derek says. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I realized this morning that one of the girls in my lab – she _is_ that girl.” Stiles shakes his head, laughing. “I thought she was so mad at me for taking up space, when it’s probably because you threw up in her Gucci bag.” He’d connected the dots when he’d seen her eyebrows, or didn’t – she really and truly did not have eyebrows, and he’d remembered being just as freaked out about it in anthro.

“Jesus,” Derek says. “Gucci? My class is here.” He turns to Stiles, and puts a hand on his arm, and looks in his eyes, and it’s a little weird, and a lot nice. Derek’s nice, and god, Stiles wants to be with him all day. He’s about to open his mouth to ask if they can’t just skip class, and say something stupid like ‘Will you marry me?’ when Derek smiles at him and says, “I’ll see you around, Stiles.”

∞

Scott and Stiles had bought and decorated their dingy little apartment with one thing in mind: frugality. It was possibly the cheapest thing going in New York short of a basement of some psycho’s brownstone, sitting above a fish and chip shop, and the smell of grease clings to their walls like a disease. There’s damp, and the heating’s still out, and the pressure in the shower feels like someone is gently peeing on you.

Without a doubt, the worst part is their coffee machine. It was Scott’s mom’s, way back in the eighties, and she insisted it still worked, and that they just had to take it with them to the big apple. In a way, it does: in another way, it burns all their coffee, and works whenever it feels like it. Still, though, it settles something in Stiles when he can force out some coffee that’s at least a little bit acceptable for human consumption, and pour it into two flasks – one’s a dark purple with half of it scraped and dented to fuck from the one time Derek and Stiles invited Scott along to an astronomy hike, and the other is covered in stars; this one, Stiles had bought with Derek in mind, but never got around to giving to him formally.

The coffee part is one part providing – Stiles’ dad would be so proud of the man he’s become – and another part him being too pathetic to just give Derek the damned flask.

But Stiles makes the coffee, adds sugar and creamer – Derek has a strong aversion to coffee unless it’s practically anemic – and shoves them in his messenger bag, along with his laptop and a memory stick.

(It’s a BB-8 memory stick, a gift from Derek because he’d seen it on sale and thought of Stiles, and likely his most treasured belonging.)

Stiles is wearing the green sweater his dad got him, and a pair of paint-splattered jeans – he’d forgotten to do the laundry, and has literally zero idea how the jeans even got paint on them – that are maybe a little too snug, but Stiles allows himself some vanity and thinks that the jeans do wonderful things for his legs and ass, if he ignores the paint stains.

His new coat – maybe a little less new, now – is still really nice, thick and a dark grey wool, long enough to brush the tops of his thighs, well fitted across his shoulders but not too tight. He wishes that he’d gotten his dad and Melissa some slightly more expensive gifts; maybe a bag, or a new pair of boots. Maybe next year, maybe if he saves up a little more.

He wraps the scarf tight around his neck, and puts on his gloves.

Derek and Stiles always get to the astronomy club room twenty minutes early; it gives them time to set up, and talk a little. It’s nice, but it’d be selfish to say it’s his favorite part of the club.

(Maybe Stiles is a little selfish.)

Derek’s already there by the time Stiles arrives, sat on the teacher’s desk and looking over some flashcards. He doesn’t look up as Stiles hands him the starry flask, though he does mutter a quiet “Thank you,” and it warms something in Stiles.

“Hey,” he says, and Derek does look up then, briefly, and nods at Stiles, and takes a sip of his coffee. Stiles taps his fingers against the side of the memory stick for a moment, reaching over Derek to plug it into the computer – Derek leans back for him, and has already logged on, and opens the presentation.

“Test coming up?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head. “Just a topic I’m struggling with.” He sighs, and shakes his head again, putting the notes down and looking at Stiles fully. “How’s your paper going?”

“It’s coming along. Word by word, I guess.” He looks down at his hands – there’s a coat rack by the door, and all his things are there. He has nothing to fidget with, no way of avoiding saying what he’s about to say. “I was wondering – next Wednesday – after astronomy – do you want to come over?” Derek raises his eyebrows slightly. “Not – I just – I mean, a few of us were gonna get together, do the whole gift exchange thing. I figure – that is – you’re staying in New York for Christmas, too, so I thought you might like some company before everyone heads back home. Not that, you know… you don’t have friends of your own, but I thought–”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, and wraps his hand around Stiles’ own. He hadn’t noticed he was waving it around until it’s still, and he flushes, embarrassed. Derek looks amused, though – happy. “I’d love to.”

Stiles is quiet for a short moment before grinning. “Great!” Truthfully, he feels a little ashamed for not inviting Derek to Central Park – like he was too scared, or something, when nothing about this is scary: Derek leaves Stiles flustered a lot, maybe, but he – their friendship – has never been something Stiles is afraid of. “That’s great,” he repeats, nodding, and draws his legs up to sit fully on the desk, legs crossed. Like this, his and Derek’s knees bump up against each other, and he can feel Derek’s warmth. They’re quiet for a moment, just smiling at each other, and Stiles feels like his heart could explode. They still have fifteen minutes before everyone else starts turning up – ten, maybe, because there’s a junior called Becky who’s just about the only one who turns up early, or on time at all – and Stiles can’t think of anything to say. He wonders if he has to.

Derek ducks his head and, minutely – but Stiles still notices – leans forward, before looking back up at Stiles. He’s sitting all cool like, one leg dangling off the desk and the other pressed against Stiles’, and he just looks at Stiles for a long moment before asking, “how come you’re staying in New York for Christmas?”

Stiles breathes out heavily. “Nothing more than student finance; I couldn’t afford it.” He shrugs. “And my dad’s working Christmas, anyway, so it’d be more lonely to go home than to just stay here. And you?” he asks. “Not going home to Montana?”

“Everyone’s in Iceland. I didn’t feel like going, and they don’t really celebrate, anyway.”

“Really?” Stiles frowns. “But – Iceland. Northern lights, and all that jazz.”

Derek looks away, and back again. “There’re better sights in New York.”

Stiles is quiet, and still, and looks at Derek for what may be a very long time, or for a couple of seconds, but his lip twitches up and he swallows heavily, and is already forming a question when Derek leans forwards, taking Stiles’ face so gently in his hands that he may just cry, and kisses him, soft and sweetly, and it’s nothing, really – no tongue, and it’s not wet or heated – but Stiles’ toes curl in his ratty shoes and he’s wrapping his arms around Derek, fingers curling into the soft hair at the back of his neck, and he must make a desperate little noise because Derek is chuckling against his – jesus, against his lips, and they really just did that.

Stiles pulls away, and can feel Derek’s breath hot against his mouth, and rests his forehead against Derek’s, and watches as he reaches out and tangles their fingers together.

They fall quiet again, until Stiles asks: “What was that?”

It’s an ode to how well they know each other by now that Derek doesn’t take it as an accusation, and just shrugs. “What would you like it to be?”

“That’s a dangerous question.”

“Mistletoe, maybe?”

Stiles breathes out a laugh and smacks Derek on the chest, leaning back. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “But we’re going to talk about this later. Becky’s gonna come in any minute now.”

Derek grins, and says “okay,” and kisses Stiles again, fingers brushing against the sides of his face, and kisses him again and again, along the corner of his mouth to his cheek to his jaw, beneath his ear, and Stiles suppresses the urge to do something embarrassing like giggle, and pushes Derek away, hissing, “Asshole,” but he’s smiling too, and covering his face. God – he’s going to have to face the kids blushing like some middle schooler. He’s lucky that Derek was so gentle with him, or he’d have to face them with a blush and beard burn.

Derek unfolds himself and stands up from the desk – and Stiles is absolutely staring at his ass – to turn the projector on, just as Becky walks in and shoots them a suspicious look.

“Hey Becky,” Stiles offers weakly, and Derek just smiles.

∞

The session goes well. Some of the quieter kids stayed quiet, and some spoke up – some of the louder students had to be near physically restrained, but – it was good, and they enjoyed themselves. Derek and he had played devil’s advocate: “What if…” “On the _other_ hand, though…” and it was a fucking delight to drive some of the kids up the wall, especially Becky – so polite, and uncomfortably passionate about Pluto.

And the whole time, Derek was a line of warmth against Stiles’ back. He wasn’t sure where they stood, but as the room clears out and it’s just the two of them left, he’s not nervous – not even a little.

Instead, he just hops onto one of the desks and watches Derek at the teacher’s desk, leaning over the chair and turning the computer off, taking out the memory stick. Stiles wonders if it’s totally inappropriate to think about his professor fantasies right now. Probably, he thinks, as Derek turns to him with a soft look in his eyes, walking towards him to stand between Stiles’ legs.

“Your memory stick,” he holds it up between them, and Stiles wraps his fingers around it, and Derek’s hand.

Stiles bites his lip. There’s – honestly, there’s a thousand things that he could be saying right now. He could say, _I don’t know why you kissed me,_ or _do it again,_ or _is this some big joke?_ But he just bites his lip, and thinks, and maybe thinks a little too much. He thinks about what Danny said.

Nothing about this has ever been scary, but Stiles still feels like his nerves are running haywire. It felt so natural, falling into Derek like that, and Stiles doesn’t know what it means.

There’s a long, long pause. Then: “Why did you kiss me?” Stiles bites his lip. “I didn’t even think you liked me that much. I mean – we run the club together, and whatever, but we’ve never been, you know,” he waves his hand about wildly, and Derek smirks, “whatever this is.”

Derek tilts his head to the side. He’s still smiling. “You really have no idea, do you?” he asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes, because – duh. Derek shuffles a little bit, like he wants to crowd in close but isn’t sure what he’s allowed to do now. Stiles makes the decision for him, tugging at his belt loops until he’s pressed up against Stiles’ front, and he rests their foreheads together, breathe each other in. Stiles doesn’t know why he does it – if it’s because he needed it, or Derek did, but… but he’s not thinking too much about it. “Stiles,” Derek breathes out, and there are two things that Stiles could think, right now:

A.) Derek is totally crazy about Stiles. This is, really, the ideal; Stiles is definitely crazy over Derek, too. Has been for a long, long time. He’s about to make some huge confession about Stiles’ eyes, or his moles, or the embarrassing way he goes on and on and on. It’ll be sweet. Or:

B.) nothing at all, because it’s too much too soon, and it feels too normal to ruin this moment with some huge, blown out confession that would just leave the two of them squirming and awkward. It was one kiss, really – and fuck, but Danny was right, Stiles thinks too much about things and for once he really, really doesn’t want to.

So he picks option B, obviously, and pulls Derek in.

∞

Later that night Stiles thinks _oh my god, Derek kissed me!!_ and makes an excited little noise. He’s embarrassed for it, jesus: he covers his face with his hands, and groans. He feels like a little kid with his first crush, and is embarrassed about the way Derek makes him react so easily. It’s too much, and he’s giddy with it, and he wonders. He wonders about a lot of things.

∞

Stiles doesn’t see Derek on Thursday, and he’s glad for it. He gets the subway to Bryant’s Park with Allison, and they wander around the Winter Village. It’s nice, snowing lightly but sunny still, and they’re both wrapped up warm with mulled wine in ugly green paper cups.

Allison and he are notoriously terrible at buying gifts – probably, it’s the main reason they even became as good friends as they are. It was awkward at first, when Allison started dating Scott, because Stiles was awkward and possessive and Allison was awkward and hard angles – but they fit well, together.

Like Derek and him, Stiles thinks privately, smiling into his mulled wine. Allison looks over, all sunny-eyed and dimples, and asks, “Where do you want to go first?”

Stiles had been prepared this year, buying presents for the girls and Scott before he’d gone back home for Thanksgiving, (Allison… had not.) but he hasn’t got anything for Derek – and that’s another thing. Is it weird to get him, like, a proper gift? Or a couple, or anything too personal? Now that they’ve… kissed, does that change the rules, or –

He breathes in, and out, and he’s not going to overcomplicate this. It feels like climbing rocks with his hands skinned raw, but he’s not going to overcomplicate this.

Stiles shrugs, and says, “Wherever you want to go!” a little too cheerfully. It’s all real though, and Allison shoots him a look, but she’s smiling and says, “I was thinking about a new bag for Lydia…”

The Winter Village is fun – they go ice skating and take tourist pictures with the huge Christmas tree, and Stiles buys Derek only a few gifts: a sweater, not unlike Stiles’, thick and handmade and a soft mulberry color, and Stiles wants to bury his face in it; a book of poetry; and a totally manly for men bath set, with aftershave and shampoo and shower gel, all cinnamon and smoky wood scented. Allison side-eyes him – likely, she knows exactly who he’s buying for, and wondering why. Likely, she’s already texted Lydia all about this, and he can’t even be annoyed about it.

He also picks up a huge shark plushie for Scott, and a jar of shells for Lydia, because they’re there – and some weird jelly for Allison, while she’s not looking, because he had some spare money and the Christmas season just has a way with him that makes him want to throw his wallet away, or something.

“I was thinking,” Allison says, “about buying Scott a blanket,” and gives Stiles a hard look. “It’s nice and romantic, and thoughtful.”

Stiles eyes them up, and wonders.

(He picks one of those up, too – it’s sea green and light blue, and a little scratchy.)

Allison has a lecture, so they head back on the subway and she rests her head against Stiles’ shoulder, breathing deeply, and says, “I’m glad we’re friends.” She taps her fingers against Stiles’ thigh. “You know, I’m happy for you. With… you know,” she nods towards the bags by their feet. “I think that it’s going to be a good thing.”

Stiles is quiet for a long time, turns his head slightly and kisses the top of Allison’s head. There’s a lot of things he could say. “I’m glad we’re friends too,” is the only one he knows how to.

∞

Stiles wakes up on Friday morning with a comfortable ache in his back, and well rested. He’d wrapped Derek’s presents when they’d gotten back, and had a lab class in the evening, going to sleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow when he got back.

The pile under the tree is looking a lot bigger, and Lydia and Allison hadn’t even put their presents under, yet.

Scott’s up already, and hands Stiles a cup of coffee as soon as he stumbles into the kitchen.

As soon as Stiles takes a couple of sips, Scott launches into it. “So,” he says, rapping his fingers against the counter. The heating is still off, and he’s wrapped in a thick sweater and slippers. “I noticed that there were a lot more gifts under the tree this morning, for Derek.”

Stiles looks into his coffee, and wonders if it’s enough to drown on. He’d wanted to avoid this conversation, truthfully, and is ashamed that he had. “I,” he starts, and bites his lip.

Scott gives him a _look_ , like he’s trying to be stern but looks a lot more like he’s pouting, and says, “You’re my best friend. You think I wouldn’t notice you coming home looking like you’d just seen Isaac trip?”

“That – that happened one time,” and was likely the best moment of Stiles’ life, “and…” he shrugs, and looks away, and feels more guilt than one kiss (and another, and another…) should elicit. “I don’t know. It just feels like something delicate.”

Truthfully, Derek has always been a point in Stiles’ life that’s equal parts stable and volatile: he knows, he knows that Derek is always there, and that they always meet on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays, and they always text, and sometimes bump into each other, but… but equally, Stiles feels like a can of pop that he’s constantly shaking.

Danny and he had once put a rock under a hydrochloric press. That’s what Stiles feels like, around Derek.

So he shrugs again, and says, “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it,” and Scott frowns at him and says, “Derek looks at you like you’ve hung the moon. I don’t want to be insensitive, but you’ve gone absolutely psycho about this already,” and gestures at their ugly little tree, “so you may as well go full in. You don’t do things halfway, it’s weird.”

It’s the complete opposite of what Danny had said to him (but maybe it isn’t, not that much) and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with it. The whole going with it had worked while they were making out in the club room, but then there wasn’t much room for thinking then once Derek had started running a hand up and down Stiles’ back – which might just be Stiles’ thing – and even after, he didn’t think about it until he was on his own, in his own bed, blushing like a school child.

He hadn’t thought about it when he’d gone and bought all the gifts for Derek, and –

And Stiles blinks, and feels like an idiot.

∞

He calls his dad while waiting for the coffee to brew.

“Son,” his dad says. He wonders if Scott had called Melissa, who’d called his dad. It’s not unlikely.

“Dad.”

They’re quiet for a moment, Stiles nervously tapping the side of his purple flask. “I need to talk to you about something,” he says after a long while, and John makes a humming noise. Stiles doesn’t say anything for a while, and neither does his dad.

The coffee’s done. He pours it in the flasks, and adds creamer and sugar.

“The thing is,” Stiles starts, “I may be in a _thing_.”

John’s quiet. Then, “A thing.”

“A thing,” Stiles wiggles his fingers about, even though his dad can’t see. “A sort of… romantic thing.”

“Really.” Yeah, Scott definitely ratted Stiles out to Melissa.

“Potentially! There is… there is a potential – for a potential.” John sighs heavily, and Stiles imagines that he’s rubbing the bridge of his nose, like he always does when Stiles is being particularly difficult. He bites his lip, and says, “I don’t know what I’m doing, dad,” in a voice that’s quieter and more broken than he dares think about too hard. “I – I don’t. I don’t know.”

There’s a pregnant pause on the line. After a while, John says, “You used to hate Allison, on principle, because she started dating your best friend.”

“Er.”

“And don’t get me started when her and Lydia started hanging out with you two on the regular.”

“I don’t–”

“And not once,” John carries on, “did I get a phone call complaining about you inviting Derek Hale over for Christmas. You bought the boy a blanket, Stiles – I think you’re going to do just fine.”

Stiles gnaws on his lip, and mulls it over. “But what if I don’t?” he asks.

He listens as John breathes in, and out, and in and out. Stiles shoves the flasks in his bag. “When I first met your mother,” John says, “she was pretty, and a lot cooler than me. I asked her out in front of everyone, and I was so scared she was going to humiliate me. I even had pamphlets for other schools in my bag. Do you know why I asked, anyway?” Stiles doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he’s meant to, really. “I was more scared of waiting too long. And she said yes. You’re a Stilinski – you didn’t get as far as you have because you were scared.”

The phone call doesn’t last much longer after that – Stiles is going to be late to the library as it is, really – and Stiles is quick to say _I love you, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,_ and hangs up.

∞

The library is busier now thanks to finals, but Derek and he sit on a table in the corner of the third floor, tucked away between the Russian literature and references, and no one ever comes there. Really, it’s not even that nice of a table – there’s a draft coming from somewhere, and there isn’t any natural light, but it’s quiet and private.

Derek’s already there, and Stiles is silent as he hands him the starry flask. They don’t talk much – Stiles is on his laptop, fighting to finish his stupid paper, and Derek’s looking through review notes. It’s quiet and private, and good – an hour passes without him noticing, and he’s near enough to the end of his paper that he doesn’t feel bad when he shuts his laptop and leans back in his seat, stretching, and groaning as his back pops.

Derek looks up at Stiles, and puts down his highlighter. He just stares, and it’s something he does a lot – just stares at Stiles, and Stiles never knows what’s going through his mind.

Well. Maybe now, he has a little bit of an idea.

But they’re silent still, and Derek smiles a little. “Ready for finals?”

“I guess so,” Stiles says. He’s not sure what much more he could do without killing himself, truthfully – he’s on a full ride, and can’t risk it by going out partying every night. Instead, he comes home from every lecture and reviews, and reviews, and reviews. It’s getting to him, and he feels a little raw at the edges, but, “I mean, it’s finals. On one hand, I’d rather be dead. On the other, I’m already one foot in the grave, you know?”

Derek snorts. “I could probably take a break from studying, actually. At this point, I’m reading the same thing over and over again. Unless the exam is a spelling test on the word sterilization, I’m not doing much useful.”

“Distracted?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches, and he makes an agreeable noise. “Tired too, I guess.”

Stiles takes a sip from his flask, and smiles at Derek from over the rim. He wonders what he’d be like, during sex; if he’d be as soft as his kisses are, or rougher, with Stiles.

“Are you excited for Christmas?” Stiles asks. “Or, faux Christmas, I guess?”

“Yeah.” Derek shuffles his papers a little. “Do I need to get the others gifts, too?”

 _Too_. He shakes his head. “Not if you don’t want to. It’s totally obligation free.”

“Food wise?”

“Oh, definitely not. We usually order in, like, enough Chinese food to kill ourselves. It’s totally disgusting.” Derek laughs, and Stiles raps his knuckles against the table. “That might be a thing, though – maybe we could get together with the club and have a Christmas dinner kind of thing? If they’re not gonna do it with their families.”

“Some of them have families in the city.”

“So we’ll only do it for, like, the ones not going home. It’ll be fun. Watch movies, play games,” Stiles clicks his tongue. “And it’ll help them bond, if we’re not going to be there with them next year.”

Derek rubs his hand across his jaw. “We could do it at mine,” he says. “My housemate will be going home for the holidays, anyway.”

Stiles nods enthusiastically – he’s been to Derek’s house, a neat little brownstone that he shares with some rich, up-and-coming lawyer. It’s nice – it’s beautiful, actually, with a big dining table and a kitchen that’s almost enough to make Stiles cream himself. “That’d be great,” he says. “God, they’re going to tear your house down.”

“I hope you’ll keep them in line.”

“Oh, I think you’ll do just fine on your own with that, buddy,” Stiles reaches over and taps a finger between Derek’s eyebrows. “These bad boys will keep the kids tame.”

Derek whacks at Stiles’ hand half-heartedly, and he smiles. Stiles’ heart maybe breaks a little.

When Stiles was a virgin, all he’d think about was sex – even after he lost it with some greasy guy named Michael, Stiles always had some kind of idea that he was going to be, for all intents and purposes, a _slut_ to make up for all his teenage frustration. It didn’t really work out like he’d hoped, but he’d had a friends with benefits kind of thing going on with a girl from his English class, and then there was that boy from his chemistry lab that was kicked out for starting a fire. There was the odd person here and there, but then his work load increased and he pushed all that aside. Now it’s him and his good old right hand, and they’ve made some memories together over the years.

He thought, since Derek and he had kissed, that he’d be more… sexual, he guesses, but he’s only really thought about that in the abstract. Like, oh, I wonder if he’d want to fuck me, or ride me, or whatever. Not, like, jumping his bones every chance he got, or anything like that. Really, he’s no more sexually oriented towards Derek now than he was before – not that that’s, honestly, saying much: most of his jerk off fantasies are revolved around him, and he’s gotten so used to carrying that guilt around with him it’s second nature.

Stiles sits across from Derek the next Monday, talking about astronomy club and everything else, and thinks back to his conversation with Scott the other day. He’d realized it then, but it becomes more real now, as he listens to Derek talk about Christmas trivia and wondering what he’d taste like, that nothing has changed. God, and it’s so obvious that kissing Derek hadn’t changed his feelings towards him at all, and that’s more than a little scary, and equally an immeasurably comforting thought. It’s been on his mind since Friday morning, and still Stiles doesn’t know when he fell in love with Derek Hale.

But maybe it’s not surprising at all, because Derek’s got half a dozen sheets of paper in front of him with Christmas trivia, research for the Christmas quiz, and wearing an ugly green sweater vest that looks positively tasty on him. Stiles smiles, then, and Derek frowns at him.

He’s saying something about Bohemian Rhapsody when Stiles interrupts him: “You know,” he says, “I was thinking we could just find a quiz on YouTube.”

“You’re an idiot if you think Erica and Becky haven’t watched every one of those videos,” Derek replies, and goes on like Stiles never spoke – seamlessly. Yeah, Stiles thinks. He loves him.

Stiles has got a copy of the trivia facts that Derek has collected, and they go through them all with color co-ordinated highlighters – god, when did they get so old? – deciding which ones to include, and which ones they weren’t.

He twists his neck and hums when it cracks, smirking at Derek’s cringe. He hates when Stiles does that (“It’s freakish and unnatural, and I hate you.”), which is what makes it so fun.

“I hate that,” Derek says, like his face doesn’t say enough for him. Stiles just laughs, and promises to make the quiz when he has the chance.

∞

Stiles stays up all Monday night studying for his finals, and Tuesday night; he’s running on total fumes when he goes for his last exam on Wednesday morning, but he comes out happy and sleepgiddy. He calls his dad on his way back to the apartment, and tells him all about the exams when he’s on the subway, and toeing off his converse in the hallway, and making a sandwich in the kitchen.

“Mm,” his dad says. “Have you been sleeping? Eating?”

Before Stiles had gone off to college, out in the world, the extent of his dad’s concern for his well being was checking that Stiles wasn’t dead, and moving on. It was never something Stiles begrudged him for – that’s just not the kind of guy his dad is. But ever since Stiles had decided to go to NYU, his dad has been constantly one step from putting chips in Stiles to monitor his everything – his sleeping, his eating, his anxiety levels.

It’s… nice, Stiles won’t deny. It feels good to have his dad worry over him like he worries over him. But it makes him feel guilty too – more than likely, Stiles has been pushing himself more than half the student populace simply because he can’t afford to lose this scholarship, and then a little bit further. He is, after all, Stiles Stilinski, and doesn’t much do things by half measures.

He chews his lip for a moment. He feels guilty for lying to his dad, but worse for making him worry. “You know how it is,” he says instead, as comfortable a middle ground as he’s ever going to find, “stress of the finals, less than usual. Not that it matters now – I’m free! Totally scot-free. Don’t expect to hear from me for the next few days, though. I’m about to go into a coma. Please don’t ever forget me, father.”

Stiles can practically hear his dad roll his eyes. “It’s today, right? Your thing?”

“Yup,” Stiles pops the ‘p’. “Derek and I are gonna head up together, after club.” He takes a bite of the sandwich – it’s pretty horrible, to be honest, because their bread is a little stale and their lettuce more than a little soft, but at this point Stiles would eat a half-rotten elephant, or Scott’s leftovers, or something equally as horrible and disgusting.

“Mhm. Any update on your… potential situation?” John sounds like he’s pulling teeth, and Stiles is delighted that Stiles being away hasn’t changed how awkward his dad is.

Stiles pauses for a long moment. Derek and he… they hadn’t spoken about it. They hadn’t even had a repeat performance – which was a fucking travesty, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself. Hell, he could be half lying, and it’d still be a damn shame – but even still, there’s no shift between them. No sparks, or rainbows, or whatever else.

“We’re the same as we’ve always been,” and maybe it’ll mean something else to his dad, and maybe it won’t. It doesn’t matter, either way.

They talk a little more – about Melissa, the crack head that lives a floor down from Scott and Stiles that listens to Nickleback at the ass crack of dawn, about the pile of presents under the tree that absolutely fucking lights Stiles up when he looks at it. It’s – it’s what the tree stands for, really, that gets him. It’s a small shitty thing in a small shitty apartment that Scott and he have had since their second year in New York, and potentially the last time this tree is going to be in this place, and… and it’s familiar, really, like Stiles has found something in New York – a family, as sappy as it sounds, and something jumps in his stomach whenever he looks at it. He loves it.

God, Stiles doesn’t want this year to end. Not at all, not even slightly.

They hang up – “Take care of yourself.” “You too, dad.” – and Stiles shoves his sandwich down his throat so quick he’s at genuine risk of choking, and strips down to his t-shirt, boxers and socks, burying himself underneath a mound of blankets. The heating is still down, but Stiles had promised to buy a space heater before the girls came over. He’ll have to drag Derek with him, likely, because Stiles is in his blanket tomb now and not moving until absolutely necessary

∞

 _Absolutely necessary_ comes sooner than Stiles thought it would – his alarm blares a couple hours later, and he hits snooze, and hits it again, and hits it again.

Stiles leaves himself fifteen minutes to get to the club room, and flings himself out of bed like he’s an extra in Paranormal Activities, or something. But he’s there on time, with the coffee, a shit load of snacks and BB-8 in his bag. Derek, of course, is already there, sitting in the office chair behind the teacher’s desk. He’s – god, they’d decided to wear Christmas sweaters (“It’ll be fun!” Stiles had said.) but somehow Derek manages to make it look like some GQ Christmas cover shoot, or something, leaning back in the seat with his legs in grey jeans and dress shoes and the stubble he’s let grow out. God, how is Stiles supposed to handle this – he’s _literally_ going to die, and it’s going to be an embarrassing death at that. “Here lies Stiles,” his tombstone will say, “who died because he’s gay, and Derek Hale is beautiful.”

He’s a mess – literally, and emotionally – standing in the doorway, sweaty with his hair all in every which way and his eyes bleary, but Derek doesn’t frown or wrinkle his nose up at him. He just sits there, and looks at Stiles, and smiles more softly than he has any right to. Stiles hates it. He – he _loves_ it. Him. Jesus. What a _mess_.

But Stiles controls himself, just like he’s been doing for the past four years he’s known Derek, and they set up the quiz (which Stiles obnoxiously calls quizmas, and Derek rolls his eyes and mutters darkly every time that he does), and they talk about this and that, and something and something else.

There’s a huge Disney bag in the corner behind Derek, and Stiles can see carefully wrapped gifts, and he gives Derek a look. Derek flushes, a little, and looks away.

The quiz itself is fantastic. It’s off the charts amazing, and not just because there was an entire section dedicated to Mariah Carey, or the fact that it was Derek and he who had made it, but because it does exactly what they’d hoped that it would. The whole club engages, and has a good time. They enjoy the snacks – candy canes and pretzels and chocolates – and all wear stupid Christmas hats (they’d made sure to bring extra for Derek and Stiles, and the thought makes him want to cry) and all hug each other and wish each other happy holidays. It’s good. It’s – it’s really good, even though Stiles comes out of it looking like he’s gone through the trenches.

The session is over too quickly, it feels like, and then it’s just him and Derek again. They’re quiet, Creeper playing in the background, and they pick up the mess that the kids had left.

Stiles gets his coat and bag from the rack when he’s done, and when he turns around – Derek is right there, in his face, and Stiles can’t even deny the noise that comes out of his mouth like it’s been punched out.

“Hi,” he breathes, and Derek smiles. Leans in close enough that their mouths brush – and reaches around Stiles, opens the door.

“After you,” he says. Stiles gapes.

They go to Walmart for the space heater, get the subway there because Stiles complained about being cold, and now they’re stood in front of a wall of the damn things and Stiles is… Stiles is well and truly stumped.

“I could get two of these,” Stiles points to the absolute cheapo ones, “…and then have, like, one on either side of the room.”

“This one’s on sale. It looks a lot better value for money.”

Stiles bites his lip. It’s on sale by, like, $5, and he spent so much money on Christmas presents already – Scott was probably right, Stiles had gone a little bit crazy when Christmas shopping. It’s something that happens to him: he sees one thing, and then another, and before he knows it he’s homeless with a sack full of presents.

“What about this one?” Stiles points to a milkhouse style heater. “It looks like it’s been pulled straight from the eighties.”

“You’re going to pick it because it looks old?”

“ _Retro,”_ Stiles corrects, pointing a finger at Derek, and pack at the heater. “It’s retro, and I won’t have you disrespecting it like that.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re going to pick it because it looks old.” Stiles doesn’t have time to answer before Derek’s picking it up and putting it in the cart.

“I’m so lucky to have a strong, buff man to do the heavy lifting for me,” Stiles reaches out and pats Derek on the arm. Derek catches his hand and tells Stiles to shut up.

(He doesn’t let go of his hand, though.)

They go around the store for a little while – they have time before they need to head to the apartment, and they’re always in need of something else, anyway. The girls had promised to bring drinks, but Stiles gets some boxed wine still, and bizarrely a few sets of socks.

“You’re so weird,” Derek tells him, when they’re standing in front of the underwear. He’s fighting the compulsion to buy Lydia a pair of zebra print panties with ‘JUICY’ written across the ass in neon pink.

Stiles says, “I have to do it. There is, physically, no way for me to resist buying these panties. Lydia would hate it so, so much.”

“Weird,” Derek repeats, and grabs the panties.

 

They’re still the first ones at the apartment – Scott’s in his final exam, and the girls aren’t due until eight – and Stiles feels a little awkward, suddenly, about having Derek in his space like this. Derek’s been here before, for sure, but always for studying, or that time he’d forced Derek to sit through the Ghostbuster trilogy that one Halloween –

(That was a memorable one, because Stiles had been too sick to go to Lydia’s party, and Derek had volunteered to come over and take care of him. It was absolutely, disgustingly sweet, and Stiles has no idea how he didn’t realize he loves Derek sooner.)

– but having him here, now, feels _awkward_ , and Stiles doesn’t know why. He’s not going to overthink it: not going to think about Derek looking at the presents under the tree and wondering why half of them are written to him, or judging the dishes in the sink that he one hundred percent asked Scott to fucking do, or even just the absolute blizzard of cold you’re hit with when you step into the apartment. He feels awkward when he shrugs off his coat, and toes off his shoes, and when he drops off the bags on the couch. He sees Derek eye up the tree, and the lights, and the garlands.

“You’ve…” Derek starts. “You’ve really gone all out, huh?” He doesn’t say anything about the cold, and Stiles snorts.

They set up the space heater next to the couch, listen as it whirs and kicks into life, and Stiles quickly wraps up Lydia’s panties.

“Oh man,” he says, “oh boy oh man, she’s going to kill me.”

“Or wear them,” Derek adds. “You really never know.”

It’s a horrible thought, and fills Stiles with delight.

He makes them hot chocolate (it’s instant, and disgusting, so Stiles pours sugar in and hopes that Derek doesn’t comment on it) while Derek disperses his presents underneath the tree with such care Stiles gets the impulse to kill himself, and pours hot water over his thumb while looking at Derek’s ass –

“Are you okay?” Derek asks.

“Mm,” Stiles says.

– and then there’s not much else to do but wait. Stiles puts on a few episodes of some inane procedural cop show and makes too many commentaries, and Derek laughs in his quiet, breathy way and watches Stiles. At some point, Derek gets up to go to the bathroom, and when he sits back down he sits with his thigh against Stiles’, and his arm along the back of the couch. Stiles doesn’t bother not resting his head against it, and Derek doesn’t bother not wrapping it around Stiles, pulling him in.

The show is old, and easy to zone out to when Derek starts rubbing his thumb in small circles against Stiles’ arm. It’s – it’s warm, and maybe it’s not all the space heater, and Derek’s Christmas sweater is soft and ridiculous and smells like spices and a little bit of sweat, and Stiles wants to bury himself in Derek.

(In, like, a cuddly way, and a sexual way, one hundred percent.)

Stiles checks the time on his phone – they still have almost an hour before Scott should be getting here – and Derek turns to him, nose brushing against his cheek. There’s a warm stirring in Stiles’ stomach; not strictly sexual, but… something, something, and he just sort of goes for it, one hand slipping between Derek’s waist and the back of the couch and one curling around the back of his neck as he turns full-bodily towards him. Derek keeps his arm around Stiles – and he won’t ever admit to how safe he feels, but he does, he does – and the other cards through Stiles’ hair.

There’s no heat to it, and they must make such an image; curled up in each other in ugly Christmas sweaters, in front of a tiny tree with too many presents underneath and some black and white TV show playing in the background, but Derek opens his mouth into it, and Stiles groans as Derek licks into it and _jesus_ , even like this it’s nothing but sweet.

Stiles feels like he can’t keep still at all, hands running all over Derek, and he feels stupid for it but he’s so restless as Derek touches him.

It’s a lot different from last time, and just the same – Derek is nothing but slow and patient with him, and it’s deep, still, and makes Stiles’ toes curl, but maybe he’s keyed up from his exam or quizmas or from how damn domestic they are, shopping together for a fucking space heater, and maybe it’s that it’s Christmas, almost, and Derek was kind not to comment on their disgusting hot chocolate, or maybe it’s his damn sweater, because Stiles feels like he’s positively vibrating underneath his own skin. He’s distantly aware that the episode ends, and a new one comes on, and then he’s not at all.

It feels like Stiles is waiting for a trigger, for one thing to happen to set everything off, and he realizes it as soon as it happens – Derek pushes forward, slides a hand underneath Stiles’ sweater and t-shirt, and his palm is hot against Stiles’ skin and makes him jump out of his fucking mind. Derek’s ring finger slips underneath the waistband of Stiles’ jeans, and he groans into the kiss and practically jumps on Derek – he’ll be embarrassed about it later, maybe, but right now he’s too gone to care, and he doesn’t know how Derek manages to undo him like this.

Derek pulls Stiles towards him, until Stiles is sat fully on his lap, knees digging into the back of the couch in an effort to get closer, closer, and Derek brings his hands to Stiles’ back, rubbing up and down briefly – and god, but that might be Stiles’ favorite thing – before bringing them lower, and lower, until he’s got Stiles’ ass comfortable in both of his hands, and pulls him forward again, making Stiles roll his hips with a moan a little too loud for comfort. God, he should be embarrassed. But he’s not. Not as Derek moves his mouth to Stiles’ neck, starts licking and kissing and biting at where it meets his shoulder, not as his neck starts to sting a little and not as Derek slides his hands up and up underneath his sweater. His hands feel huge against Stiles’ ribs.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, and Derek says, _“Jesus,_ Stiles,” like it’s punched out of him.

Stiles can feel himself growing harder as he grinds down on Derek again, can feel Derek grow harder, and Stiles gasps into his mouth – he wonders if it’s too much, too soon, but it feels like it’s not enough, not even close. So he tightens his fingers in Derek’s hair, pulls his head back and away from Stiles’ neck, and shoves his tongue into Derek’s mouth. It’s not very graceful, and maybe he’s pushing it a little, but Derek’s hands return to his back and he’s the one to groan, now, and slow the kiss down into something filthy.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts for – if it’s minutes, or hours, or what: he’s only focused on Derek, the wet heat of his mouth, and his hands running up and down Stiles’ back, and the way Derek’s hips twitch, now and again, making Stiles squirm and choke on moans – but then there’s the sound of a key turning in the lock, and Derek and he are on other sides of the couch, just like that.

Scott comes in, girls in tow and bags of Chinese foods hanging from their arms, and they all kind of pause and stare at each other. They’re so obvious – Derek’s flushed, lips swollen and looking guiltily at the floor, and Stiles must be worse. His neck must be rubbed raw, and likely his face, too.

There’s no hiding what they’ve done, so Stiles throws them a grin instead and says, “Who wants to drink?”

∞

Lydia stares at the couch for a long time before sitting down at the very, very end, and Scott sort of nudges at Stiles’ leg until he moves back down next to Derek so that he can sit down next to Lydia: Allison’s on the floor by the tree, self-appointed gift giver. It’s fun – they stuff themselves with takeout and get drunk on shitty wine and beer. Scott puts some music on – from his phone speakers, which are shockingly poor – and they sing along to Christmas songs, and maybe get a little too into it. Stiles is fully expecting noise complaints, if only for his own wailing that is _far_ from singing.

They’re all happy with what they get, because they know each other too well to buy shitty presents – Lydia and Allison laugh until they cry because they’ve both bought each other the exact same dress, all sequins and a nice red color, and Scott wraps Allison’s blanket around himself and breathes it in, and snorts at the plushie Stiles gets him.

Derek is the worst – when he opens his presents, slowly and carefully unwrapping the paper like he’s afraid of tearing it, he gives Stiles a long, considering look that makes Stiles want to kill himself, and tugs his Christmas sweater off – oh, what a shame – and tugs on the mulberry one. Stiles… Stiles wants death to come quickly to him.

Stiles gets – Stiles gets a bunch of books, some obscure amnesia-space-crime series that he’s been dying to get his hands on, and when he looks at Derek, Derek looks away and then back again, looking shy, like he’s afraid that Stiles is going to mock him or something. He also gets a glow-inthe-dark solar system on strings, and a bunch of stars, and a polaroid camera – all, he suspects, are from Derek.

Lydia raises an eyebrow when she sees the camera, but only says, “Aren’t you going to take a picture, then?”

“Wait, wait!” Scott jumps up from the couch and runs into his room. There’s the noise of him rooting around, and Stiles wonders if he’s gotten lost, or something, before he comes running back with a bunch of Santa hats in his hands. “Put these on,” he says, handing them out, “and then we’ll take a picture.”

It’s awkward to take one with all of them, a selfie with half of Allison’s face cut off, so they laugh and take them properly: there’s one that Derek takes of them, and one of Stiles and Lydia, and Scott and Allison, and one of the girls and finally, one of Derek and he, that Scott takes with a cheeky grin.

(Stiles smiles stupidly when he sees it, and feels pleased with himself.

Even more so when Lydia opens the panties. Her face goes carefully blank for a long, long time as she holds them in front of her, and Derek rolls his eyes good-naturedly while Stiles literally falls off the floor and laughs for a good ten minutes, even though he definitely banged his elbow against something, on his way down.

He wonders if she’ll actually ever wear them.)

An hour later, the floor is a long forgotten relic underneath all the wrapping paper and gifts, and Stiles gets up to make them all hot chocolate while Scott puts a movie on. Lydia had bought him some proper hot chocolate and flavored syrups – likely, so that she could make him her hot chocolate slave, but it turns out nice, so he doesn’t mind too much.

Allison forces them to squish up so that she can fit on the couch, too; the couch was absolutely, decidedly _not_ made for five fully grown people, and they all end up with their legs tangling and Allison and Lydia giggling hysterically. Maybe, maybe they’re a little drunk, but the wine makes Stiles comfortable enough to tuck himself into Derek’s side, resting his hand on Derek’s thigh, and biting back a grin or something equally as dumb and gay when Derek wraps an arm around Stiles, pulling him close, close, closer.

The movies are traditional, good-hearted Christmas ones, and they watch the same ones every year. Likely, Stiles could recite every line if he wanted to, any other day, but not with the way Derek is rubbing circles into his arm like that, and not with the sly look Scott shoots him, and not with the warmth of the wine and the take out and of having his little New York family in his home, or the fact that he finally, finally feels settled. He’s got his friends, and he’s sat his exams, and he’s all wrapped up in Derek. It’s good. Things are good.

He’s comfortable enough that he drifts off to sleep somewhere between the first and second movie, and wakes up when he’s jostled about. _It’s A Wonderful Life_ is on the TV, and when Stiles blinks away the sleep and looks around blearily, he looks up to Scott putting Derek’s blanket over the two of them.

Stiles makes some noise that he thinks is meant to be a word, and turns to Derek – Derek, who’s fast asleep, and snoring a little. He looks… unbearable in his sleep, hair rustled and face soft in a way it never seems when he’s awake, even when he’s most relaxed. His mouth is a little open, and he’s turned towards Stiles, slightly.

He looks up at Scott again, who’s smiling and saying, “Go back to sleep, dude, we’ll sort this,” and the girls are tiptoeing around somewhere behind Stiles. He has no doubt in his mind that he’s going to end up being the one cleaning up tomorrow, and Scott and the girls aren’t going to sort anything, but…

But Stiles goes back to sleep.

∞

Stiles is lying on the couch with the blanket over him, and his pillow tucked beneath his head. He groans, stretches out and listens as his bones pop and crack – he’s alone on the couch, and scrunches his face up unattractively.

Then there’s the sound of water running behind him, and he shuffles around awkwardly until he sees Derek, washing their mugs. Jesus, Stiles thinks. Jesus.

“Der,” he tries, voice sleep-cracked and raw.

“Stiles,” Derek says. He turns briefly to shoot Stiles a smile over his shoulder, and gets right back to it like he’s being paid for it, or something. Stiles sighs and pushes himself off of the couch. It’s a step short of a herculean task – here, he’s nestled into the warmth of the blanket, and the slight smell of Derek. But the apartment isn’t any colder off of the couch – the space heater, Stiles thinks. He’s a little sweaty, really, and Stiles trips out of the Christmas sweater. Underneath, he’s wearing some embarrassing t-shirt with an embarrassing slogan – that’s exactly why he bought it, honestly, but he wishes that he’d worn something a little more… _sexy_ , maybe.

His and Derek’s presents are stacked in neat little piles, and there’s a bin bag in the hallway that Stiles can see a little bit of red wrapping paper poking out of. The take out cartons are nowhere to be seen, either, and Stiles wants to cry; Derek really has gone and cleaned Scott’s and his apartment. It’s ridiculous – he’s ridiculous.

He stretches again, against the ache in his muscles, and yawns, scratching at his belly. Likely, he’s an absolute sight, with his hair every which way and his eyes narrowed and bleary. Stiles rubs the crust out of them.

“Der,” Stiles says again, and makes his way to him, around the couch and the grimy counter that’s meant to be a breakfast bar, or something just as fake, and leans up against the counter next to the sink. Derek shoots him a side look, and gets right back to it. God, this man.

“How’re you feeling?” Derek puts one of the mugs on the rack, dries off his hands with the sad little towel Scott and he have had for longer than he’s willing to admit, and turns his body to Stiles, resting his hip up against the counter just the same.

Stiles scuffs his toe and shrugs. “A little like I’ve slept on a shitty couch, a little like I’ve just been keelhauled. Not sure yet; it’s a work in progress. I’ll let you know.”

“I’m sure.”

They stand there, and smile at each other. It’s dumb, probably.

“Are you seriously cleaning our apartment right now?”

“You were asleep,” Derek shrugs, “there wasn’t much to do.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You got my pillow for me.”

“The couch seemed uncomfortable.”

“It was,” Stiles agrees. Again, with the staring and smiling. It’s getting a little old, except that it’s not. “I, uh, also noticed that we’ve been making out a lot more lately.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “I’m really glad that you noticed that. It means a lot, really.”

“Shut up,” Stiles gripes, and pushes at Derek. Derek just laughs, and grabs Stiles’ wrist, and takes a step until he’s in Stiles’ space, until Stiles can feel the heat of him. Stiles thinks – this could be it. This could be when they finally talk about it. But then he _finally_ gets it; they just don’t need to. “Stay the night,” Stiles breathes. Derek raises his eyebrows. “That is – I mean – it’s late, and it’s dark out. You could – you – it could be dangerous out. You don’t know. You can’t see.”

“I can see plenty fine, Stiles.”

With Derek holding his wrist like this, Stiles feels a little useless – he’s still sleep drunk, and has a little bit of a headache, and likely has morning breath. He feels suddenly, inexplicably, breathless, and it should be sad that all Derek has to do is curl his fingers barely around Stiles’ wrist and reduce him to – to whatever this is. Stiles feels like he’s hiccuping around the thoughts.

“Derek,” Stiles says, and his voice is a thread uncurled from its bobbin. He doesn’t want to beg. He doesn’t –

But Derek just looks at him, and leans in just a little closer and presses his lips to Stiles’. He’s still holding Stiles’ wrist, but lowers it and tangles their hands, instead, and says, “Okay.”

“I just need…” Stiles starts, “my pillow–”

“Yeah.” Derek looks a little like he wants to make fun of Stiles, and a little… a little something else, that Stiles is absolutely one hundred percent not willing to think about, right now. He just wants to sleep, and have Derek there in the morning still.

Reluctantly, Stiles lets Derek’s hand fall from his, and grabs his pillow, and feels his head clear up a little as he wakes up more and more. Derek heads to the bedroom – and Stiles smiles something small and private that Derek went into his room to get his pillow for him – and Stiles follows, the pillow hanging from his hand.

His room is as disgustingly _Christmas_ as the rest of the apartment, with garlands and Christmas lights and a tiny little Christmas tree on top of the chest of drawers, and reindeer bed covers. The walls are painted blue-gray with posters covering them, and it’s smaller than Scott’s room, but he’s tucked a double bed in there, anyway, and a little desk underneath the window, with his laptop and a horrible pile of papers and a pot of pens. Opposite the window, to the left of the door, is the chest of drawers, long and one of the only pieces of furniture that came with the apartment; it’s a running theory between Scott and he that it’s haunted, and that’s why it was left behind – it has a little musky smell that pretty much convinced them of this. There’s an awkward little gap in the corner where Stiles has put the guitar he never did learn to play, not properly, and then a tiny little bookcase that’s all plywood and duct tape, on the left of the bed; more than once, the weight of all of Stiles’ books had cracked the wood, and he’d given it the Stilinski fix – tape it up, and keep taping.

It’s small, and it feels more his than his room back in Beacon Hills ever did – maybe it’s the fact that he chose and bought the apartment, or lugged the furniture in himself, or that he’s an adult and this is his very adult bedroom, with its adult funko pops and DADA era art prints that he bought while very, very tired – and he keeps it clean. To the point of obsession. The only stain is the mess that his desk is – and even that is a mess to the point that it makes perfect sense to Stiles, but he can probably see how to an outsider it would look like an utter embarrassment – and the water damage in the ceiling from the apartment above them who like to drown themselves on a weekly basis, apparently, judging by how extensive the damage is.

Derek doesn’t comment on the ceiling, though, or the desk; he judges at a toy dinosaur on the chest of drawers that Stiles has had for literally his whole life – it has the teeth marks to prove it – and looks impressed but unsurprised at the bookcase, and laughs bodily at the bed sheets.

“Only you,” he says, and Stiles almost opens his mouth to say that Lydia and he have matching bed sheets, but he doesn’t; that’s not the point, not at all, not even a little.

Then they undress, and there’s nothing romantic or erotic about it; that is, the way that Derek looks when he strips out of the sweater Stiles had gotten him, or the t-shirt underneath, or the clink of his belt buckle and his bare feet and his black briefs, is absolutely and undeniably beautiful, but Stiles admires him like he admires a work of art. It’s… it’s something wonderful, but it’s nothing sexual. It is, literally and completely, nothing more than them undressing, and turning off the light, and getting into bed together.

Maybe it’s good that Stiles doesn’t think of it as anything more than what it is, doesn’t overthink, and that it feels just natural, or maybe it’s sad, or maybe it’s a nod to how tired he is, still, or maybe it’s nothing at all other than them, curled up in each other’s arms underneath Stiles’ reindeer bed covers and a thick, knitted blanket he keeps folded up at the foot of his bed, and the moonlight against Derek’s face, the shadows his eyelashes cast over his cheeks. Maybe it’s nothing at all, and maybe it’s everything: but it is what it is.

Stiles falls asleep, listening to the gentle thud of Derek’s heart.

∞

“Hey dad.”

“Stiles. How are things?”

“Mm. Good. Listen – I called because of that whole – uh – situation. The potential.”

“…Right. The potential for whatever.”

“Potential for – yeah, whatever. Listen, um. It’s no longer a potential. That is – you know, it’s not action _potential_ if it’s _realized_ , I guess, so–”

“So it’s realized?”

“I… yeah, yeah. It’s realized.”

“Are you going to bring Derek home any time?”

“I don’t – that’s – it might not be that realized, just yet. But… maybe. Maybe.”

“Uh- _huh_. Let me know. Keep me updated. Not – just not _too_ updated, Stiles.”

“Har har. Are you eating well?”

∞

Scott and the girls don’t leave for another few days still, so they make plans to go to the park and make snowmen, or whatever. Scott had stumbled into the kitchen the morning after their faux Christmas and asked if they wanted to, and hadn’t even blinked at the sight of Derek, shirtless and in a pair of Stiles’ basketball shorts, with a few fresh hickies across his neck and chest.

“Can I bring Isaac?” Derek had asked.

Stiles had practically stumbled over himself to say, “Yes, yes of course, dude,” before remembering that he hates Isaac.

The next morning they’re all in the park, looking stupid wrapped up in their hats and scarves and making a snow village. Stiles is going for some Calvin and Hobbes style horror show, and he’s doing a pretty good job of it so far, if he says so himself.

Lydia’s the one helping him with it, her snowmen much more delicate than his, but so, so horrifying – he loves it.

It delves into a snow fight, because of course it does, and Stiles dies valiantly protecting his creations (while Lydia is a disgusting little snake and leaves him to it), and then they’re all wet and shivering, and huddling into a pizzeria, squishing into a little booth.

It’s a cute pizzeria – they’re probably all going to go home with food poisoning, but the waitress is nice and even Italian – which Stiles feels just adds to the authenticity of it all, even though they’ve taken nice, Italian pizzas and given them grease and fat and the American dream, or whatever – and the booth is big enough for most of them – Scott pulls up a chair and they all ignore the table that could literally fit all of them more than comfortably, because it’s ugly and the booth is traditional; it’s always gotta be a booth.

There’s jazz music playing from somewhere that Stiles suspects strongly is just an iPod, and the waitress comes back a couple minutes after handing them menus – all pink and green and comic sans, Stiles is in love – and asks them if they’re ready to order. Derek and he order a pepperoni pizza to share: it’s unimaginative, but cheap, and when it comes it’s on the pizza stone still. Stiles thinks that this is probably a good sign, and it even comes with a plastic snowflake sticking out the top.

“That’s fantastic.” Stiles picks the snowflake off and grabs a napkin, wiping off the tomato sauce. “You best all give me these right now, or I will literally choke you on your food. Don’t try me.” Stiles would probably try it, too – Christmas makes him go fucking crazy, he loves it.

He really didn’t peg Derek for someone who’s particularly into PDA – really, he isn’t himself; it’s unnecessary and made him very, very bitter when he was single – so he isn’t surprised when Derek doesn’t throw himself onto Stiles’ lap and make love to him right there and then, in the middle of the pizzeria, but Derek does rest his arm along the back of the booth, fingers resting against Stiles’ shoulder. It’s… it’s nice. Maybe Stiles could be swayed to the side of PDA – after all, he’s never really had anyone to practice with.

The pizza comes with enough cheese that Stiles would struggle to chew it if he wasn’t literally bred and raised for this exact purpose; his mother used to let Stiles control how much mozzarella he put on his pizzas whenever they made them, which was likely a mistake and detrimental to his young health, but is nothing but a skill now. A life lesson. One day, Stiles will teach his own kids the same thing, and pass on the torch.

Derek looks at him and sighs. “I want to be disgusted,” he says, “but I expect literally nothing less from you.”

“That would’ve been a mistake.” Stiles chews his bite and licks at his fingers. “I’m pretty wellknown for my swallowing.”

Derek just rolls his eyes, and Scott loses his shit.

∞

The night before Scott and Lydia are flying back to the dust bucket town in California, they decide to go out clubbing, because, “If I’m going to be miserable,” Lydia had said, “I may as well be drunk and miserable.”

(“Do you want to bring Isaac again?”

Derek’s quiet for a little while, fingers tapping against Stiles’ leg. “No,” he says eventually. “He’s not really into that sort of thing. Thanks, though.”

Stiles can’t pretend that he’s not relieved.)

Scott goes to Allison’s apartment before it, probably to have sex before he’s too drunk to get it up, and Stiles invites Derek over. They haven’t had sex yet; and it’s weird, it is, because Stiles’ thoughts about Derek were – and are – less than child-friendly, but whenever Derek’s with him he’s just so content to lie down and make out with him for hours, until one of them has to leave or they’re falling asleep, that he’s really, really not tried anything. They’ve gotten hard before, absolutely, and been sweaty, flushed messes, but…

Stiles is absolutely willing to throw all of that out the window when he sees Derek. He’s wearing all black; a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons just about ready to pop off, and jeans too skinny to be allowed, really, and fancy dress shoes. It’s so – it’s different from Derek’s usual sweater vests and cardigans, and Stiles really doesn’t know what he was expecting – for Derek to come clubbing with a nice little sweater with doves stitched on? – but it wasn’t… it wasn’t this.

Stiles is dressed in something Lydia had described as “Slutty, like you’re not trying too hard, but you’d still be down for anal,” in a tight black t-shirt and leather pants that he’d needed baby powder to get on, and his dress shoes, because they’re the only club appropriate thing he has.

“Jesus,” Derek breathes.

“Close enough. Did you want to come in, or just stand there?”

Derek shoves Stiles in, barely shutting the door behind him before he’s crowding Stiles against the wall. God, but they don’t even make it to the kitchen before Derek is all over him, thigh between Stiles’ legs and tongue down his throat. It’s hot – it’s hot, and Stiles thinks that he didn’t even need to turn the space heater on. He chokes on a groan when Derek’s hands slide up beneath his tshirt, riding it up to his ribs, and Stiles clings to Derek’s back.

Derek is, at the core of it, sucking Stiles’ face: his tongue, his lower lip – it’s embarrassing. Stiles should be embarrassed for Derek. He totally would be, if he was capable of cognizant thought, but then Derek pushes a little closer and shifts his thigh, and there’s nothing about Stiles that’s coherent, now. Stiles cards his fingers in Derek’s hair and tugs when Derek bites at his ear lobe, his jaw, his neck – and Stiles’ throat is as sensitive as his back, because as soon as Derek starts sucking what’s going to be, likely, the biggest hickey of Stiles’ life into his neck, Stiles is just about ready to die there and then.

“ _Derek_ ,” he says, “Derek, oh _shit_ ,” and –

– and then Derek is stilling, and saying, “We should head out.”

“ _Asshole_ ,” Stiles hisses, and Derek just laughs at him.

∞

It’s cold outside, and Stiles isn’t entirely willing to bring his nice, woollen coat with him, so he throws on some ugly cream jacket he’d gotten years ago and hopes that he heats up enough at the club that he doesn’t feel the cold as bitterly as he does now.

But it’s still December, and night, and still cold; his teeth start chattering, and Derek throws an arm around him and pulls him close. He doesn’t know what it is about Derek – maybe it’s the fact that he’s big and bulky, or a literal teddy bear – but he runs so warm, and Stiles half melts into him, lets him walk them to the subway, and to the sketchy club that they’re all so fond of. They leave their jackets buried deep in the back of the cloakroom, get a little distracted, and head to the bar.

The club is really and truly awful – all flashing neon lights, and the music has his ears ringing almost immediately.

Stiles spots Scott and Allison right away, doing some odd slow dance on the edge of the dance floor, and Lydia’s sat looking bored at the bar as some guy with cornrows and a pink leopard print waistcoat tries to talk to her: as soon as she sees Derek and he, she’s pushing away and towards them, drink in hand.

“I am about to lose my mind,” she hisses at them, and grabs Stiles’ hand. “The both of you, dance with me.”

It’s – it’s awkward as hell, it sure is, because neither Stiles nor Derek can dance. Stiles tries, but he’s fully aware of how he must look, limbs flailing and jerking about, and Derek’s stiff as a board, but it’s… it’s good, and it’s fun, because Lydia laughs at him and tugs at Derek’s hips, and they dance and dance in a weird entanglement of the three of them.

Lydia drifts off at some point – to dance with a guy, or Allison, or whatever – and it’s just Derek, and Stiles, and their terrible, terrible dancing.

But none of it means a thing – it’s not embarrassing, or pulling nails, or anything quite like that – because it’s just them, with their arms around each other, bopping to the music, there’s no other word for it. They laugh at each other, and do ugly dances together. God, it’s so domesticated.

Stiles, of course, drinks; as soon as he’s worn himself to the point where he’d probably die if he danced any more – and what a way to go, he thinks – he’s at the bar, downing shot after shot, with some fruity and colorful concoction in between. Stiles hates boring drinks, hates beer or cocktails that are one solid color: all his drinks are pink and orange, or lime and purple, and after a while he can’t even taste them any more. Lydia takes one of his drinks, and says, “it’s only fair!” and then leaves again, with Stiles sputtering after her: “Wh- that’s – that’s – hey! That’s not fair, the _witch_ , the _vixen_ …” and after a while he loses track of his tongue. It doesn’t take that long, really. Stiles is a lightweight, and has a proclivity to drinking himself to death every now and then. Keeps things interesting.

“You should probably slow down,” Derek says.

Stiles shakes his head. “No, no no no no, I’m fine. I’m great. In fact–”

∞

(Stiles loses track. He doesn’t remember.)

∞

He wakes up with Lydia tucked up between Scott and he, her face buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles groans and rolls onto his side – Lydia makes a snuffling noise under her breath and curls into Stiles’ back. They’re in Stiles’ room, and when he turns he sees a glass of water and some painkillers on top of the bookcase. He smiles, small and private. The pills go down with a sip of the water – it’s still cool, and fresh – and he leaves the rest for Scott and Lydia.

Stiles feels terrible, and is sure that he’s still drunk: his mouth tastes like a giant rat crawled in it and died, and his head feels far too big and heavy for his body, but there’s something warm and fuzzy curling up in his stomach when he drags himself out of bed – he’s in his boxers, still, and the black t-shirt from last night, and his ugly Christmas print socks – and pads into the kitchen. Pads, god, Stiles feels like he’s something dragged straight out of a bad novel, some days.

Derek’s in the kitchen, with some coffee brewed, and he’s thumbing through one of Stiles’ books. It’s an H.G Wells novel, old and worn. Stiles wonders how long Derek’s been awake: he’s a good way through it, already. Derek barely looks up at Stiles as he walks in, but passes him a mug of steaming coffee. Probably, the smell of coffee woke him up, and Derek knew that it would; he’s known Stiles for too long to not know how to wake him up, and Stiles has fallen asleep in too many study sessions.

“How’re you feeling?” Derek asks, putting the book down and drawing Stiles to him, hands on his hips.

Stiles takes a sip of his coffee – it doesn’t taste burned, like it always does from his stupid coffee machine, and he decides there and then that he’s going to keep Derek, even if it’s tied up to the kitchen counter – and leans into Derek. “Mm,” he says. “I’ll let you know when I’ve had a little more coffee.”

Derek nods empathetically, eyebrows raised sarcastically. Stiles has gotten pretty damn good at reading his eyebrows, over the years. “I’m sure,” Derek agrees. “Don’t Lydia and Scott need to be leaving soon?”

“Ooh yeah.” Stiles takes another long draw of his coffee. “I’ll get them up if their alarm doesn’t; otherwise it’s a pretty dangerous bet to wake them up. Like, do you like your fingers? I do. I’m a fan.”

Derek smirks at Stiles, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not gonna take that back, asshole.”

“I hope not. Hey, is that mistletoe?”

“You’re a bad liar, you know.”

Derek shrugs. “I know,” he agrees easily, and Stiles puts his mug down.

∞

On Christmas Eve, Stiles meets Derek in the early afternoon to buy food for the kids tomorrow. The past few days had been some of Stiles’ favorites – they’d been alone, basically, and had spent a lot of that time together. They’d had sex, though it was nothing terribly dramatic; morning blowjobs, a makeout session that went a little too far.

They’d hung out with Isaac, too; he lived in the city, and didn’t have any family that he’d speak of, and they’d gone over to his shitty studio by subway and played xbox for a while, and went for a meal later.

(Stiles had invited Isaac to Christmas dinner with them, and Derek had looked at Stiles like he’d hung the moon, and Isaac tried not to look too happy with it.)

They meet outside Walmart and buy whatever’s left from what was no doubt an absolute raid of all their food aisles, but walk away with a good turkey, and vegetables, and boxed wine –

“Are they even old enough to drink?” Derek asks.

“Who cares?” Stiles replies.

– and Stiles insists that they get the kids all little presents each. Derek and he pick up a selection box filled with candy and chocolate for each of them, and stupid little gifts like bouncy balls and play-doh, and Stiles insists that they buy some garish Christmas decorations, because it wouldn’t be Christmas if it wasn’t gaudy and a little ugly.

When they get back to the brownstone, Derek lets Stiles pick a movie to put on (he picks a freaky psychological horror, and is half regretting it ten minutes in, half not) and grabs them snacks while they wrap the presents. They don’t bother put name tags on – the kids will all get a selection box, still, and whatever silly toy they pick up. It’ll be a pick and mix – it’ll be fun, Stiles insists, and Derek rolls his eyes and humors Stiles.

They still have the rest of the day to themselves, and they spend it lazily – they set up a light up tree that sings Jingle Bells in a voice that sounds like it’s choking on gravel, and put the presents underneath. They hang tinsel everywhere, and a single string of Christmas lights, and make garlands for a few hours until Stiles’ hands hurt. Stiles hangs up plastic mistletoe everywhere, and holds a piece over Derek and he, later when they’re sat on the couch: Derek just rolls his eyes, and pulls Stiles down on top of him.

Then, later, Stiles makes them pasta bake – the only meal not out of a box that he really knows how to make – and they eat at the fancy dining table, all thick varnished wood and clawed feet, and argue about who’d win in a fight – Captain America or Batman? – and which was the best shark movie of all time – Sharknado, Stiles is adamant, because of the fact that it’s so terrible, but Derek is a traditionalist and insists it’s Jaws. (He throws in any David Attenborough documentary that features sharks, and that threw them both.)

Later still, Derek asks Stiles to spend the night.

“I have a spare toothbrush,” he says, like he needs to convince Stiles at all.

“Only if you show me your night light,” Stiles says anyway, just to be contrary.

It turns out that Derek sleeps with the blanket Stiles had gotten him thrown over his bed. They have sex that night, when Derek takes them both in hand, and it’s warm and quiet – as quiet as Stiles gets, which is to say: not at all, and he spent the entire time talking about all the ways that he wanted to take Derek apart, piece by piece – and a little lazy.

∞

They sleep in late the next day: the others don’t arrive until four, and Stiles figures he doesn’t have to get up outrageously early to start at it – it’s not that big of a turkey – so when he wakes up early, anyway, a habit picked up from too many seven a.m. classes, he just rolls back and curls into Derek’s chest, huffing softly at the comfortable ache in his muscles and the heat of Derek’s bare skin against his.

He wakes up again properly, later, when he feels Derek shifting. When Stiles opens his eyes, rubbing the crust out of them and squinting against the sun as Derek throws the curtains open, it’s to Derek in low-hanging sweatpants and hickies down his chest. Stiles smirks, and stretches out like a cat.

Derek raises an amused eyebrow at him. “Good morning.”

“Mm,” Stiles moans. “Not yet. Leave me alone.”

Derek kneels on the bed, crawling over to Stiles. “That’s what you want?” he asks, inches from Stiles’ face. “For me to leave you alone?”

Stiles looks at him for a long while. “Hng. I’m too not awake for this. Be nice to me.”

“You need to put the turkey on.”

“ _You_ do it.”

Derek shrugs, and leans in just a little bit more. “We can do it together, if you just wake up.”

A pause. Stiles stares up at Derek, and says, “Wake me up a little first?”

They kiss then, Derek leaning down and Stiles reaching up, and it’s warm in an uncomfortable way and they both have morning breath, still, but it’s unhurried and nice, and they settle into each other in a way that screams how familiar they are with each other, even if not necessarily in this capacity. Stiles wraps his arms loosely around Derek’s neck and pulls him down on top of him, and Derek bites playfully at Stiles’ bottom lip, hands at his waist.

“Come on now,” Derek breathes, pulling away. “Come downstairs.”

Derek throws him a pair of his own briefs – and god, isn’t that a thought? – and one of his old tshirts, an Iron Maiden one that looks like it’s a hundred years old, soft and worn and smells of detergent, and a little of Derek. It – it makes Stiles feel fuzzy and safe, strangely.

“Hey, Der,” Stiles says, tugging the top over his head, and when Derek turns to him and says, “Hm?” Stiles walks up to him, and kisses him gently, and says, “Merry Christmas.”

Derek smiles, then. “Happy Christmas, Stiles.”

∞

Cooking is a lot more interesting with the two of them. Neither of them have any particular idea what they’re doing, and spend more time messing about than actually reading the instructions. But they get the turkey in the oven, eventually, and Stiles holds up the turkey baster to Derek.

“Ready for your enema?” he asks, and Derek punches him in the shoulder.

Then they decide to make a pie, which is better and worse: better in that Derek actually knows what he’s doing with this one, and it makes Stiles stupidly happy to see Derek in the kitchen, making something for the kids and him actually competently, and having a good time with it, too. It’s worse, though, because baking comes with egg and milk and flour, and is a lot messier. Stiles ends up looking like he’s aged a hell of a lot, or more probably looks really, really crazy, and Derek looks worse off than him. Derek keeps threatening Stiles with a wooden spoon because he keeps eating the dough, and Stiles keeps trying to spike the pie, and it’s a disaster, and it’s a lovely one.

The pie smells fucking wonderful while it’s cooking, and Stiles is practically foaming at the mouth.

“Ugh!” Stiles moans. “It’s not fair.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, and doesn’t say anything.

“I mean,” Stiles continues, throwing his arms up, “it’s just hanging out there, smelling like God’s wet dream, and I can’t get my slutty, slutty mouth on it.”

Derek’s gaping now. “Your – Stiles, what the fuck.”

But Stiles just shakes his head. “I don’t have an answer for you, buddy,” because he doesn’t. Craving makes him weird, and he never had much control over his _slutty, slutty_ mouth anyway.

Before the kids arrive, Stiles starts prepping the rest of the meal while Derek sets the table, and it’s all horribly domesticated and makes Stiles want to eat his literal heart – really, just rip it out and shove it down his own throat – and then suddenly they’re there, and Stiles wonders where his day went – they’d gone on a walk and made out behind a tree for a long while, sure, but _still_ – with food and gifts.

"You didn’t have to–” Stiles starts, because they didn’t; it’s Derek and he that are meant to be providing, and yet here they are, Erica holding a huge bag filled with wrapped presents. “Really–”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Erica snipes, and that’s the end of that.

It’s a good meal – it’s Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and a mousy girl called Margaret (and Stiles isn’t, truthfully and honestly, surprised that she’s a shy type, with a name like that. Unfortunate – then again, Stiles is the one going by Stiles, because even that’s better than his real name) – that’s loud and filling, and they have loads of leftovers, somehow; they’d all eaten like beasts.

The kids and they get caught out by the mistletoe, a couple of times, and it fills Stiles with delight – mostly, they’re just quick pecks on the cheek that has Stiles wishing he had his camera on him, but Derek and he pass under it, and Erica finds them tangled up in each other ten minutes later, and cackles. When Stiles turns to her, she’s holding her phone up, and throws him a wink.

They sit in the front room, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them how the kids and Isaac look almost in awe of Derek’s home, and Boyd pulls out some board games from his backpack: Monopoly, and Risk, and Catan – and they waste a good few hours playing them. Derek, it turns out, is terrifyingly good at these games, and Boyd almost as much. Erica almost beats Derek out a few times, but Stiles and Margaret are _hopeless_. It’s humiliating, but Derek kisses him and it feels like a victory anyway.

Even though it’s late, Erica complains about not being tired at all, and makes them watch _How The Grinch Stole Christmas;_ she falls asleep halfway through, and the kids all clear out pretty quickly after that, Erica arguing the whole time about how she’s good, she’s pumped and ready for action, you slimes, the whole while half asleep.

Of course, none of the kids offer to help clean up: Isaac had eyed up the dirty dishes and scampered. But it’s a nice wind-down, Derek and he standing next to each other, Derek with pink dish gloves on and scrubbing at the dishes, and Stiles drying them and putting them on the rack. And god, Derek’s kitchen is gorgeous, all rosewood and sprawling marble counters and a huge fridge that likely could fit the both of them in – it even dispenses ice, what the fuck – but:

“How do you not have a dishwasher, dude?” Stiles asks, and Derek shrugs.

“We had it removed,” he says. “Neither of us wanted to encourage laziness. Of course, he leaves all the dishes for me to clean, but it’s the thought that counts,” he carries on in a voice that says that the thought very much does _not_ count.

Stiles snorts. “That’s so old, man. Like, I bet you said _out loud_ , to another _real human being,_ that you didn’t want to succumb to the foils of modern technology. Did they drag you out of a mausoleum? Is Ellis Island missing an exhibition?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Then it’s ticking on midnight, and then it’s no longer Christmas. Derek and he hadn’t bothered with gift exchanging when they’d already done it just earlier that week, but sitting on the couch with his legs tucked beneath him, resting against Derek’s side with his arm wrapped around him, feels like so much more than that: he feels safe, and warm, and settled. He’s wearing Derek’s pyjamas – they smell like him, and now a little of them, and Stiles can’t keep from lifting the top sleeve – a little too long, and falls over his fingers – to his face and breathing it in. Derek’s been wearing the bath set Stiles got for him, he can tell, because there’s the smell of wood and cinnamon, and the underlying, _addictive_ smell of _Derek_.

They go to Derek’s room halfway through an episode of How It’s Made, and Derek pushes him against the closed bedroom door and licks into his mouth, thigh pushing against Stiles’ crotch. Stiles moans into his mouth, and gives as good as he gets.

Derek shoves Stiles onto his back, in the middle of the bed, and crawls over him, curling a hand around the back of his neck and kisses him again, deep and wet and dirty, and Stiles can’t stop the helpless little noises that escape him. Derek’s still wearing jeans, and Stiles tugs at the belt loops and reaches between them to unbuckle him. It’s hard to concentrate. Derek groans when Stiles pulls him out, and starts working at him, quickly lifting his hand to his mouth as soon as Derek moves onto his neck, licks his palm and brings it back around Derek, tightening his grip, twisting and pulling, and drags his thumb against the head. Derek comes, biting the juncture between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, and Stiles cries out. Derek sighs, and collapses on Stiles – the air is pushed out of his lungs, and it’s maybe just a little harder to breathe, but it only makes his dick twitch more – panting harshly into his ear.

He near loses his damn mind when, a couple minutes later, Derek shuffles down the bed and tugs Stiles’ pants down and takes him into his mouth. But god, the things Derek _does_ to him should be illegal, and it’s only an embarrassing few minutes before Stiles is pulling at Derek’s hair a little too harshly – but maybe not, maybe not, because Derek moans _loudly_ at that – and spilling down Derek’s throat.

Derek keeps baby wipes in a drawer next to the bed, the dork, and wipes them both clean. They’re both naked when they get under the covers, the blue-green blanket warming them up, and Stiles falls asleep in Derek’s arms, and then wakes up in them, hours later.

This has – definitely, and undoubtedly – been the best Christmas that he’s ever had, and he wonders if they’re all going to be like this.

He hopes so.


End file.
